


Check Me Out

by holtzbabe



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Erin is a cashier, F/F, Holtzmann keeps buying weird things in the middle of the night, Shit gets gay, Walmart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:46:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8455921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holtzbabe/pseuds/holtzbabe
Summary: Erin has had a lot of terrible jobs in her life, but working the graveyard shift as a cashier is the worst one. Nothing good ever happens between the hours of 10:00pm and 6:00am. That is, until a strange blonde-haired woman comes through her till with one of the weirdest orders she's ever seen.Or, Holtzbert Walmart AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> After writing what is objectively [the most canon-based fic in existence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8241338/chapters/18885917), I decided I needed to go in the completely opposite direction and try my hand at an AU. And, ignoring several submitted prompts (which I asked for), I saw this prompt elsewhere on Tumblr and it spoke to me. Enjoy!

Erin Gilbert has had a lot of terrible jobs in her life, but working the graveyard shift at a 24hr Walmart as a cashier is the worst one. Hands down.

Nothing good ever happens between the hours of 10:00pm and 6:00am, she’s decided. It’s impossible.

She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t desperate for money, but she’s a grad student, and a broke one at that. This was the first job opening she came across that didn’t conflict with her schedule—because what could the graveyard shift possibly conflict with besides sleeping?

She’s gotten used to it, sort of, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less terrible.

One night around 2:00am, she’s stifling a yawn as she hears the squeaking and rattling of a shopping cart approaching. She straightens up and tries to look alive as the cart comes into view. It’s being pushed by a woman dressed in paint splattered overalls, a green top, and a leather jacket. Her hair is a wild mess on top of her head, and she’s got a pair of yellow-lensed goggles buried in the curls. Additionally, she’s wearing a second pair of yellow-lensed glasses.

Erin sees all sorts at this job. Nothing can faze her anymore.

Or at least, that’s what she thinks. When the woman skitters to a stop, flashes her a grin, and starts unloading her cart, Erin isn’t so sure any more.

Erin watches as one by one, the yellow-goggled woman places cans of black spray paint on the conveyor belt. She gets up to six before Erin remembers that she’s a cashier, and she jumps a little and forces her customer service smile onto her face.

“Hi there! How are you doing?” She starts scanning the spray paint cans. “Do you need a bag today?”

The woman holds up a finger. “Hold on, I got something…” She rummages around in the cart, cans clinking together, and pulls a beat-up silver duffle bag from beneath them. She passes it to Erin with a grin.

Erin takes it gingerly and sets it in the bagging area. She resumes scanning and loading the cans into the bag. She’s seen weirder receptacles for bagging.

The woman seems to decide that the one-by-one strategy is taking too long, and she scoops the rest of the canisters into her arms and unceremoniously dumps them on the conveyor belt. There’s also a can of Pringles amidst all the spray paint.

Erin continues to scan. She’s been counting in her head. She’s up to 11.

The woman comes and leans on the counter by the card machine, still grinning manically. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

Erin pauses and looks down at the mound of spray paint canisters on the conveyor, then back at the woman. “I don’t…actually know what this looks like.”

The woman’s grin widens.

Erin resumes scanning. Finally, she makes it through the pile, and all the cans are wedged into the duffle bag. The Pringles are left out, at the woman’s request.

“That’ll be $152.54 today,” Erin says.

“How many were there?” the woman replies instead of reaching for a wallet.

“39,” Erin answers instantly.

The woman groans. “Shit. I miscounted. Can you wait here while I run and grab another one?”

Before Erin can say that she _has_ to wait there, it’s her job, the woman takes off—actually running. She runs in a suitably strange way, with her limbs flailing everywhere.

Erin watches her until she disappears down an aisle, then yawns again. She glances down at the jammed duffle bag and spots a radioactive symbol stuck to the side of it. In the centre of the symbol there’s a tiny pink heart.

Erin shuffles a few inches away from the bag. She can only hope that it’s a bizarre decoration choice and the bag itself isn’t actually radioactive, but you never know.

Combat boots clomping and echoing down the store, the woman returns. She skids to a stop, panting, and hands the last can to Erin, who scans it.

“156.40,” Erin announces.

The woman pulls a thin black wallet from a pocket of her overalls and pays. Then she hoists the duffle bag over her shoulder, tucks the can of Pringles under her arms, gives Erin a salute with two fingers, and leaves pushing her empty cart.

Erin watches her go and listens to the sound of the cans clank against her side each time the bag hits it. She kind of wishes she had asked what she was going to do with 40 cans of black spray paint, but if there’s one thing she’s learned from this job, it’s that sometimes you don’t want to know.

 

* * *

 

The following Thursday at 3:37am, Erin is staring at the blank screen of her till and counting down the minutes until she’s allowed to leave (143), and the sound of footsteps drags her back to reality.

It’s the spray-paint woman. Erin recognizes her instantly by the mop of blonde hair and the yellow glasses. She’s only wearing one pair today. Her face lights up as she sets her basket on the edge of the conveyor. She must recognize Erin too.

“Hi there!” Erin chirps in her customer service voice that makes her cringe.

The woman unloads four packages of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, a pack of 50 self-adhesive envelopes, another can of Pringles, and a single potato. She sets the basket in the stack on the ground and strides closer to lean on the till again.

“Come here often?”

Erin blinks and begins ringing through the items. “I…work here, ma’am. So, yes.” Why can’t she stop the blush that creeps up whenever anyone flirts with her?

The woman pulls a face. “You don’t have to use your customer service voice on me.  It’s three in the morning and there’s nobody around. I won’t tell anyone.”

Erin relaxes a little. She scans the Pringles and holds them up. “Pringles again? You must be a fan.” She doesn’t make a habit of commenting on people’s orders usually, but something inside of her is itching to make small talk with this strange woman.

The woman grins and holds out her hand for the tube. “You try saying no to these salty parabolas.”

A tiny snort escapes from Erin. She sobers. “Do you need a bag?”

The woman shakes her head. “I can carry it all today.”

Erin scans the Magic Erasers and sets them aside. She’s run out of conversational topics.

“I’m hoping they’ll take off the scorch marks on my wall,” the woman says casually. “It probably won’t work, but I’m gonna try.”

Erin scans another pack of the Magic Erasers and inspects the back of it. “I know they’re magic, but I don’t know if they can remove fire damage.”

The woman sighs exaggeratedly. “Maybe I can paint over it when I move out.”

“Cooking accident?” Erin hazards.

“…Sure.”

See, this is why Erin doesn’t ask.

 

* * *

 

The woman shows up again three days later. It’s 3:15am, and all Erin wants is to be done her shift. After this shift, it’s her weekend (although her “weekend” falls on school days, so it’s only a weekend in that she gets to sleep at night instead of being in retail hell).

This time, the woman has no basket or cart. She strides up and sets a single 100-count box of condoms on the conveyor, and that’s it.

“They’re for science,” she says in place of a greeting.

Erin offers her a weak smile as she scans the box and announces the total.

The woman leans closer. “No, when I say they’re for science, I mean it. That’s not a euphemism.”

“Um…”

“Those things aren’t going on penises any time soon. I’m like, really gay.”

“I, uh…”

“Am I making you uncomfortable? I’m sorry.” The woman stares without blinking. It’s unsettling.

“No, not…not at all. Um. I’m just…trying to figure out what you could possibly be using these for.”

“Science.”

“Yeah, kay, I got that. But what kind of science?”

“The kind of science that requires 100 condoms.” The woman hands her a bill.

Erin counts out change and hands it to her along with her receipt. “But what specifically will the condoms be used for?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” The woman winks, tucks the box under her arm, and strides away.

 

* * *

 

The woman comes through Erin’s till at 2:30am later that week with a 2L bottle of coke and three rolls of duct tape.

“How did your condom science go?” Erin asks.

The woman shrugs. Then she leans against the till. “You weren’t here on Tuesday.”

Something about the way she says it makes Erin’s stomach tingle. She sounds disappointed.

“It’s my day off.”

“Ah.” She pays and slides the rolls of duct tape onto her arm like bracelets. Instead of leaving, though, she unscrews the lid on her coke and takes a swig. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “So do you always work the graveyard shift?”

Erin nods.

“So are you nocturnal, then? Do you sleep all day? That’s so wild.”

“I have class during the day,” Erin replies. “I sleep whenever I have time in between.”

The woman’s face twists. “How are you functioning?”

Erin laughs. “Coffee. And as if you can talk. You only ever come in the middle of the night.” It just slips out, like the kind of good-natured teasing that one might have with their friends—not complete strangers coming through her till.

The woman smirks. “How do you know I don’t come in the day too?”

“I guess I wouldn’t know. Do you?”

She chuckles. “No. I’m a bit of a night owl. I’m a grad student, so…”

“Me too!” Erin lights up.

“No kidding?” The woman grins. “Whatcha studying?”

“Well, I’m in the field of theoretical particle physics…”

“For real? I’m a nuclear engineer, but I’m starting to focus my work on experimental particle physics!”

“Oh my gosh, seriously?”

They go on to discuss what each of them are doing their thesis on. It’s so refreshing to have someone who Erin can talk about her work to. Nobody else understands it.

She doesn’t know how much time they’ve spent talking excitedly about particle physics until a loud throat clear tears Erin from the conversation. She looks up to see a tall woman standing at the till with her arms crossed and a single pack of batteries on the conveyor.

“Are y’all done having chatty-times over there? Feel like ringing Patty through? ‘Cause Patty’s smoke alarm ain’t gonna stop hollering until I get these batteries in it, and it’s the middle of the damn night and I’m cranky as hell and I’d like to go back to sleep.”

“Oh! Sorry, of course, ma’am. Let me get that rung through for you right away.” Erin quickly scans the batteries and announces the total. While the woman—Patty?—pays, Erin happens to glance over and realizes that the blonde woman has stepped off to the side but is still there, taking another pull from her bottle of coke.

A little flustered, Erin hands the tall woman her receipt and flashes her a bright smile. “Have a good night, ma’am.”

The woman nods and manages a smile in return. “Yeah, you too. Sorry for snapping earlier. I’ve been listening to the damn thing beep for an hour straight and I’m ‘bout to lose my mind.”

“Well, I hope you can get it to stop so you can sleep,” Erin said.

“Thanks, man. I hope you get to go home soon too.”

 After the woman leaves, the blonde woman steps closer again. “I hope its not weird that I stuck around. I just realized I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Holtzmann.” She extends the arm that has the duct tape rolls on it.

Erin shakes her gloved hand. “Erin. With an E.”

“I know.”

“What?” Erin pulls her hand back.

“You have a name tag.” Holtzmann smirks.

Erin blushes. “Oh. Right.”

There’s a few seconds of silence.

“I should head out, then. Let you get back to your job.” Holtzmann sounds reluctant.

“Oh yeah, we’re in the middle of a rush right now.” Erin gestures around at the near-empty store.

Holtzmann laughs. “See you next time, Erin.”

She walks away. “See you,” Erin says quietly, too late.

 

* * *

 

Each night that goes by that Holtzmann doesn’t come through her till, Erin goes home disappointed. She’s not entirely sure why. Maybe she’s just interested to see what weird combination of items she’ll have the next time she comes through.

When she finally shows up a little less than a week later, it’s at 3:00am and she’s pushing a cart again. Erin can’t help but beam when she sees her.

“Hey!”

Holtzmann grins. “Morning, Erin.” She pulls a medium sized box from the cart and sets it down, then another.

Erin scans the first one. It’s a toaster. The next one is also a toaster. Then an electric kettle. Then a blender. Then another electric kettle. Then another toaster. All different brands.

“This is a lot of small appliances.” Erin tries to cover up her smile. “Are they for science?”

“Bingo! You catch on fast.”

“I thought you _built_ machines.”

“Yes, well, I’m in a bit of a time crunch right now, so I’m gonna use the parts from these—specifically the heating elements. Normally I’d go dumpster diving, but the last toaster I got from a dumpster electrocuted me real bad, and I don’t have time to go out and find this many.”

“Makes sense. Need bags today?”

“Nah, I’ll just take the cart out to my car.”

Erin scans the blender, then pauses, staring at it. “Blenders don’t have heating elements. Why do you need a blender?”

“I like smoothies,” Holtzmann replies.

Erin laughs.

 

* * *

 

The next time, it’s 1:39am and Holtzmann comes through with a badminton racquet and a set of tennis balls.

“I think you’re mixing sports, here,” Erin jokes.

Holtzmann looks down at her purchases. “Oh, no, they’re not related. At all. I’m not even using either of these to play sports.”

“Of course you’re not.”

 

* * *

 

3:50am. Two tubs of ice cream and a pack of crayons.

Erin: “Does this have something to do with children? A birthday party, maybe?”

Holtzmann: “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

1:14am. Ten bags of pre-torn lettuce.

Holtzmann: “People have been hounding me to eat healthier.”

Erin: “And…ten bags of lettuce is the solution?”

Holtzmann: “Well, I don’t know!”

 

* * *

 

2:46am. Rubber gloves, disinfectant spray, and a turkey baster.

Holtzmann stands there, smirking slightly, clearly waiting to hear Erin’s reaction.

Erin stares. And stares some more. “You know,” she says finally, “I think this is the most concerning combination you’ve ever brought through my till.”

Holtzmann throws both hands up in the air and kicks out her leg victoriously.

 

* * *

 

3:25am. A baby onesie.

“This is cute,” Erin says as Holtzmann is paying. “Is it a gift?”

“Oh, no, it’s for my child.”

“Your…oh! Wow, I didn’t…I didn’t know you had a baby, that’s…wow!” What a stupid thing to say. How would Erin know that Holtzmann has a baby? They _are_ virtual strangers, after all. It’s weird, but somehow Holtzmann doesn’t feel like a stranger. She feels like a friend. “Um, how old is your baby?”

“Nine years,” Holtzmann replies.

“Nine ye— _what?_ ”

Holtzmann is already walking away with a salute. “See ya next time, Erin!”

Erin is left spluttering after her. _What?_

 

* * *

 

The next time she sees Holtzmann, it’s 1:55am, and the engineer drops a bag of chips and a card onto the conveyor belt. Before Erin can say anything, Holtzmann has turned a phone screen towards her. Erin squints at the screen.

“Is that—”

“My child.”

“That’s…a cat…in a onesie…”

“Yes.”

“I…that makes a lot more sense.”

Holtzmann grins at her.

Erin turns her attention to the order, which seems tame for Holtzmann. She scans the chips first, then the card.

 _My deepest condolences,_ the front says.

Erin sets it off to the side hurriedly, feeling like reading that was an invasion of privacy somehow.

“Do you have a pen kicking around back there?” Holtzmann asks after she’s paid.

“Yes, of course.” Erin rummages around for one and hands it to the engineer.

“Thanks.” Holtzmann hunches over the counter, clicks the pen down, and opens the card. For a few seconds, there’s the quiet sound of pen scratching on paper. She straightens back up again and hands the pen back. “Do you want to sign it?”

Erin blinks. “Um. Isn’t that kind of weird?”

Holtzmann shrugs. “He won’t read it.”

Erin hesitates. Holtzmann holds the card in her direction. Finally, she takes it, mostly just curious to see what’s written inside.

_Happy anniversary_

_Love, Holtz xo_

Erin’s brow furrows and she looks up at the blonde.

“There was a lab incident,” she says cryptically. “A year ago.”

“Oh.” Erin looks back at the card. “And the card is for…”

“The guy I put into a coma.”

“Oh! I’m…sorry, that’s…”

“I visit him every week. They say he moved a finger yesterday, so there’s hope.”

Erin doesn’t really know what to say to that. She bends down, pens a generic get well soon message and signs her name, then passes the card back to Holtzmann.

“Your handwriting is like, creepily perfect.”

“Well, yours is nearly illegible, so.”

“We’re a match made in heaven, then,” Holtzmann says with a wink. Then something crosses over her face and all at once she swiftly gathers her chips and the card and takes off with some sort of stuttered goodbye.

Erin frowns, watching her retreating back and feeling slightly hurt. Well, that was weird.

 

* * *

 

Holtzmann doesn’t come back for over a week. Every night, Erin spends the entire 1:00-4:00am slot on edge, and every night it passes without a trace of the blonde engineer. Every time she has to go on break, she’s anxious the whole time—worried that she’s going to miss Holtzmann.

She keeps replaying their last conversation in her mind, trying to figure out what could’ve caused Holtzmann to freeze up and run away. She’s perpetually distracted thinking about the engineer, and she’s already made several dumb mistakes on till in the past week. If she keeps this up, she’s going to be fired.

One night she’s coming in for her shift and she finds her coworker and friend, Abby, eating dinner in the break room. She tends to work a 5:00pm-1:00am shift a few times a week, so their shifts overlap occasionally.

“Hey, Erin.”

Erin unlocks her locker and shoves her bag inside. “Hey, Abby.”

There’s still ten minutes until Erin’s shift starts, so she sits down at the table across from Abby.

“Abby, do you…do you have regular customers?”

Abby slurps a wonton into her mouth and chews. After swallowing, she says, “Sure.”

“Do they…kind of feel like friends to you?”

Abby makes a face. “There’s a man who buys 13 ounces of Vaseline every Tuesday. I don’t think I want to be friends with him.”

Erin frowns as well. “Okay,” she presses, “but are there any normal and nice regulars who you consider friends?”

“Not really.” Abby shrugs. “Why?”

“Just wondering.”

A minute passes.

“Have you ever been hit on by a customer?” Erin blurts out.

“Of course. Creepy men hit on me all the time. I got an official warning that time because I told a customer to go fuck himself, remember?”

“Right. How could I forget?” Erin pauses. “What about women?”

“What about them?”

“Do women ever hit on you?”

Abby stares at her. “What is this, 20 questions, retail edition?” She laughs. “Stop being weird and let me finish my soup in peace.”

 

* * *

 

Holtzmann finally shows up four days later at 3:21am. She’s dressed cleaner and more dapper than usual, in matching grey slacks and a vest, with a silk scarf tied as a necktie. She’s wearing a long black coat and a different pair of yellow glasses than usual, with thicker frames.

She slinks up to Erin’s till as silently as a ghost, and Erin jumps when she realizes she’s appeared. Holtzmann doesn’t put anything down on the till—she doesn’t even seem to have a basket—and she merely stands there with her hands in her pant pockets, rocking on her heels.

Erin’s initial surprise fades into excitement, then confusion.

“Hi,” Holtzmann says.

“Hi.”

A beat.

“Are you…buying anything?”

“Oh.” Holtzmann turns and grabs a pack of gum from the display and hands it to Erin.

Erin scans it and sets it aside. Hesitantly, she reads the total.

Holtzmann sighs. “Listen, Erin, I came to apologize.”

“For what?” Erin asks in surprise.

The engineer rummages around in her pockets and pulls out a handful of change and crumpled bills, which she begins sorting through without meeting Erin’s gaze. “Flirting with a cashier is an incredibly assholey thing to do because they can’t escape and they have to be nice to you andI’msorry.”

Erin blushes. “Were you flirting with me?”

Holtzmann deposits the money into Erin’s hand and finally looks up at her. “I tried really hard not to. But yeah, I kinda was. I’m sorry, Erin.”

“Don’t be,” Erin says boldly, a little stunned at how forward she’s being. “You can flirt with me. If you want to.”

A grin spreads across Holtzmann’s face. “Whaaat?”

Erin prints Holtzmann’s receipt and, continuing her brave streak, grabs a pen and prints her phone number neatly on the bottom before handing it to the engineer.

Her grin deepens. “Until next time, Erin.” She tucks the receipt in her coat pocket and strides away.

“You forgot your gum!” Erin calls after her.

“Keep it!” Holtzmann calls back over her shoulder.

 

* * *

 

At the end of her shift, Erin practically runs to her locker. She throws it open and fumbles through her bag until she finds her phone. There’s a string of texts from an unknown number.

_3:38am: heyyy it’s Holtz_

_3:39am: Holtzmann, I mean_

_3:39am: but friends and pretty girls like u can call me Holtz ;)_

_3:46am: hypothetically speaking, if I were to ask u out, when is a time of the day that ur not in class, working, or asleep? does such a time exist?_

Erin giggles to herself and types out a response.

_6:07am: Hello, Holtz. Hypothetically speaking, I’m free Monday night. :-)_

Almost instantly, there’s a reply.

_6:08am: it’s a date ;)_

She tucks her phone back into her purse and heads out, bubbling with excitement.

“Bye, Erin!” a cheerful male voice calls as she exits the store.

She turns around and waves goodbye to their greeter, whose extreme attractiveness has both increased foot traffic and caused numerous accidents since he was hired. “Bye, Kevin! See you tomorrow!”

 

* * *

 

It’s Sunday night—well, technically early Monday morning—and Erin is once again counting down the minutes until she gets to leave. She’s never been more excited for her weekend.

At 2:57am, she spots a familiar mess of blonde hair approaching and her stomach flips. She hasn’t seen her since the gum, but they’ve been texting frequently since then.

The engineer tosses a bag of Hershey’s Kisses on the conveyor. “Why hello.”

“Hey, Holtz,” Erin says with a smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Holtzmann winks. “I know I’m seeing you tomorrow—or later today, I guess—but I couldn’t resist dropping by to see my favourite cashier.”

Erin blushes. “I’m your favourite cashier?”

“Mmmaaaaybe.”

Erin tries to cover her smile with her hand as she scans the bag of Hershey’s Kisses and Holtz pays. She hands the engineer her receipt and the bag.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you later.” Holtz says. “I’m looking forward to seeing you _not_ in a blue smock.”

“How do you know I’m not going to wear this? This is what I wear on all my dates.”

Holtzmann smirks. Then she tears the bag open and very delicately balances a single Kiss on Erin’s till. Without saying anything, she salutes and saunters off.

Erin takes the Kiss in her hand and watches Holtzmann go, her heart thrumming, and she contemplates the fact that Holtz has singlehandedly disproven her theory that nothing good can happen between the hours of 10:00pm and 6:00am.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on Tumblr! My URL is now [holtzmannerin](http://holtzmannerin.tumblr.com/) :) And follow the lovely [Jillian-not-Holtzmann](http://lil-peanutt.tumblr.com/) who beta'd this as per usual. 
> 
> I'm writing more AUs, btw. Like, as we speak. And I'm actually writing prompted ones! Look at me go!


End file.
